Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.

Francesca's Pov

The following morning, I paced up and down the corridor outside Alessandro's room, waiting.

It did not take long before I heard an unmistakable footstep approaching. 

"Francesca," Vincenzo's voice called from behind me, smooth but with the familiar bite of authority. "Come."

I spun around, my mask in place. I followed him through the hall, down towards the private room where Alessandro was recovering. I braced myself for something, anything but not what I saw.

The guy was sitting without a shirt. Eating oranges. 

The same dude who'd gone almost fatal from a shot to the shoulder. His skin was already re-knitting itself where I'd stitched him up. Steady respiration. Barely in the sling.

What the hell? I was even shocked but I attempted to keep my face neutral, but Vincenzo saw it all.

I stepped closer. Read his vital signs. Cycled out the dressing. Clean, precise stitches. No indications of infection. Th8e flesh re-knitting itself too quickly.

"He's… recovering amazingly well," I breathed.

Behind me, Vincenzo emitted a kind of cough.

"That's one way to describe it," he replied. "The last doctor we had said that these were going to take weeks to heal. He couldn't remain upright for two without morphine."

I didn't look back at him. I didn't trust my face.

"He's lucky," I said baldly.

"Lucky to have you, it seems."

He moved closer. I could sense the heat of his body at my back as I turned to him. His eyes weren't sneering this time. Just steady and blank.

"You've done a good job," he said after a while. "I'm impressed."

I nodded stiffly. "Thank you." Then, before I could stop myself, I tacked on, "I'd like a day off. Just today."

His eyebrows shot up. "Bored of saving lives already?"

I didn't rise to it. "I need some air. Somewhere quiet.".

He tilted his head to the side, studying me as if I were a puzzle piece he couldn't seem to figure out. Then he nodded.

"You have it. But don't expect the same courtesy every time you ask for it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said straightforwardly.

He smiled. "That's why I like you, Francesca. You understand where the line is to be drawn. And how to stay on it."

I said nothing in return. Simply turned and left.

The sun streamed in on the grimy windshield as I left Vincenzo's gates. I refused to look back, but I felt his shadow lingering behind those metal walls. There was something that gnawed at me, a vibration under the skin that persisted on.

As I made the turn off the zigzag street just past the estate, I saw something. A black sports car on the opposing side of the road. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. This street was lined with splintered fences, feral dogs, and rusted sedans that coughed smoke when they crept down the road at all. But the sports car - low, glossy, perfectly waxed did not move.

I barely gave it a second look. Just some spoiled rich kid avoiding his dad in the wrong part of town. Or at least that was my story so I drove on.

………..

The restaurant I visited was tucked between two dilapidated bookstores on the less frequented side of the old city. No sign, not even one that glowed. Just a faded green door and a quietly ringing bell when you pushed it open.

Inside, it was lemony and basil fragrant. Clean and Naked. There were a few couples sitting spread out at tables. A violinist played some subdued music in the background. I sat at a table by the window, by myself, and had one course—herbed chicken grilled and sparkling water.

I did not play with my phone. I did not want to.

For a single instant, I permitted myself to catch my breath. Back pressure disappeared as I looked down at the steam wafting from my plate. This was not a battlefield. No dark things lurking in the corners. No poisonous words. Only clinking glasses and the whisper of the rare soft laughter.

I had forgotten how it felt to sit somewhere and not look for someone behind you.

But peace doesn't endure.

My phone vibrated once. I snatched it out of my pocket reflexively, the screen illuminating with a number I knew all too well.

“Matheo.” I answered.

"Frankie," he said, his voice strained. "Come now."

My spine braced. "What's happening?"

"Uncle… Something happened. Breach of some kind. Details are still filtering in, but it's bad. You need to get back to the villa."

My breath was held. "Is he…?"

"Alive. At least, for the moment. But not safe. Hurry."

I didn't wait. I tossed a careless handful of cash on the table, sending the fizzy water into the drink. My waitress shouted something behind me, but I was already pushing open the door.

The air had changed again. That hum that I couldn't shake came back like static's ghostly whisper creeping under my skin.

I reached my car, keys clutched in hand, slammed into the driver's seat—and braked.

Rearview mirror. The black sports car had already vanished from where it had parked.

It had been behind me and now was. Engine idling. Creeping forward, hardly at all.

It was watching me, following me. 

My heart went wild, but I forced my hands to stay steady as I turned the ignition.

I eased out slowly, thudding heart beating like a war drum against my ribcage. 

I took a turn, and then two rights. A side street cut across a bakery and a boarded-up barber shop. The black car followed.

I took another turn, followed behind a centuries-old delivery truck, and killed the lights.

Quiet. One beat. Two. Then the black car glided past the alley. It slowed… but didn't stop. Didn't turn, it just kept on going.

I didn't breathe until it faded into the distance. Someone might be watching me.

Not Vincenzo. It couldn't possibly be. It was someone else. And whoever they were, they were closing in.